The world is upside down.
Dirt darkness soils the sky, whorling down the drain like a gardener washing his hands. Buttered sunshine seeps from endless corners of cornfields, its rays blurring into stalks, dusted stars bursting in leaves of gold and green.
A popping snap of a corn husk interrupts the grumbling of the sky, like a coin dropping surprised to the floor of a shopping centre. The farmer, standing wide legged amongst his crops, takes a moment to stare upwards into the brewing storm and brace himself for a bloodbath, a war he is going to lose.
The mouth of some unrelenting god begins to scream at him as he snaps and snips, breaking stalks, gathering crops helplessly into his arms, glaring futile in the face of the tantrum of the skies.
Husks fall through the loose thicket of his coat sleeves, too thin to protect him from the elements as the wind begins to prick at his skin. They beat at the ground as they drop, they drum alongside the raindrops.